Tamsyn Murray-My So-Called Haunting (7 page)

Crunching defensively on a handful of crisps, I folded my arms. ‘Go on, then, David Beckham. Explain.’

A determined gleam in his eye, Dontay sat up straight and scanned the snacks on the coffee table thoughtfully. ‘All right. We’re going to need salt and pepper pots, one of those
cheesy footballs and that glass.’

I gathered everything up and sat back down. What followed confused me more than I’d thought possible. Most ghosts learned how to move solid things around, but it wasn’t a skill
Dontay had mastered yet. So, with him barking instructions at me, I put the glass in goal and placed the other things in various positions around the table, trying hard to look like I understood
every word. As far as I could tell, as long as your pepper pot didn’t play the cheesy ball past the salt, you were OK. How that related to what was happening in the actual game was
anyone’s guess, but Dontay looked so pleased with himself I didn’t dare ask anything else.

By the time the teams went off at half-time, England were cruising at two-nil up and the opposition looked like they wished the game was over. Flicking a sideways glance at Dontay, I said,
‘I bet you miss it, being able to kick a ball about.’

His expression was bleak. ‘It sucks.’

Something had been nagging at me. ‘How did you work out how to leave the place you died and move around? Did another ghost tell you?’

‘What are you on about?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t need to be told – I just went.’

I frowned. ‘It’s not as simple as that. Ghosts need to carry something from the place where they died to be able to leave. If you don’t, you’re stuck there.’

Dontay stuck a hand in his pocket. ‘I had this on me when I got shot,’ he said, revealing a silver number six the size of his palm. ‘It fell off the front door when I slammed
it to go and meet my mate. Someone would have nicked it if I left it on the floor so I shoved in my pocket.’

That explained it; Dontay had died on his own doorstep, at the bottom of the tower block. He hadn’t needed to take anything because he’d already got the number. ‘You’re
lucky. Some ghosts never figure out how to leave.’

He nodded, turning the number over in his fingers. ‘I didn’t go far at first, mostly just up to the flat, but I hated seeing Mum crying all the time. So I started following Nelson
when he went training with the lads. In the end, I couldn’t stand not being able to join in.’ His hand clenched around the metal. ‘The ghost of an old bloke in the flat next door
told me about the Dearly D, and I knew I had to go.’

‘Oh?’ I hardly dared to breathe.

‘For Nelson. He couldn’t cope when I died. I’d always been there for him, see? He looked up to me and suddenly, I was gone.’ His voice cracked on the last word. A
shuttered look came into his eyes and he swallowed. ‘I don’t know if I can do this.’

I watched him in mute sympathy. His pain was obvious, but forcing him to face up to it before he was ready wasn’t going to help anyone. There was no rush, anyway. At least he’d
opened up a bit and I felt he was beginning to trust me. It was enough for now. I decided to lighten the mood.

‘If you’re planning to put together a ghostly five-aside team, don’t pick Gawjus George,’ I advised, pulling a rueful face. ‘When he says he’s a world-class
dribbler, he doesn’t mean with a ball.’

He heaved in a deep breath and smiled in spite of himself. ‘Cheers, I’ll remember that.’

The players reappeared on the screen and we turned our attention to the match. The opposition had clearly been given a real telling-off at half-time because they played like their lives depended
on it and it was soon two-all. Dontay divided his time between cheering the England boys on and answering my questions. To be honest, I was feeling pretty pleased with myself. Dontay was relaxing
around me and I’d learned that cheesy balls were more important than I’d realised in football; overall, the evening had been a success. But I’d forgotten about one tiny detail,
the number one reason why Celestine never, ever invited ghosts back to the house: Mary. As her quivering, enraged form materialised in the doorway, I knew I’d made a huge mistake.

‘This place is mine!’ she howled, her face twisted in territorial fury. ‘Begone, before I unleash the seven spirits of hell on thee!’

Dontay jumped up, his expression a mixture of bravado and confusion. ‘You what?’

I stood too. I didn’t know which seven spirits of hell she had in mind, but she was in danger of freaking Dontay out and I didn’t want him to run again. Forcing my racing pulse to
calm down, I injected a casual tone into my words. ‘Relax, Mary, he’s visiting, not moving in.’ Turning to Dontay, I lowered my voice. ‘Don’t make any sudden moves,
OK?’

She glided closer, mistrust etched on her face. ‘Does thy aunt know thou art breaking the covenant?’

Dontay glanced at me helplessly. ‘What’s she on about? Who is she?’

I rolled my eyes. She was talking about the haunting-rights pact she’d negotiated back in my grandparents’ day to ensure no other ghosts muscled in on her personal haunt-fest.
Celestine had mentioned it when I’d first moved in, but needless to say, I’d forgotten. ‘It’s hardly breaking the covenant. This is a friend and we’re just watching
the game.’ I looked from her deeply suspicious face to Dontay’s bewildered one and sighed. ‘Look, how about if I introduce you? Mary Drover, this is Dontay Ambrose.’

Her wary gaze still trained on Dontay, she waved a hand at the plasma screen. ‘What mischief art thou hatching with the sorcerer’s tool?’

I shook my head in embarrassed disbelief. Anyone would think she’d only just materialised from the sixteenth century. The truth was she loved the TV as much as I did and I suspected she
was a shopping channel addict during the day. I adopted my most persuasive voice. ‘Absolutely no mischief has been hatched, Mary. I promise. Celestine knows all about it.’

For a moment, she seemed to teeter on the brink of a major tantrum, but her gaze flickered back to the television screen and I could see she was curious. I signalled Dontay to sit down and sank
on to the sofa myself, patting the cushions next to me invitingly. ‘Why don’t you join us?’

‘’Tis an unnatural thing,’ she muttered, but I could tell her heart wasn’t in it. With one last glower at Dontay, she came and sat down. And that was how Celestine found
us twenty minutes later; two teenagers and a four-hundred-year-old witch in deep conversation about the merits of playing a four-four-two formation. From the look of astonishment on her face, it
was the unlikeliest sight she’d ever seen.

‘Hi.’ I grinned up at her. I was about to explain what had happened but England chose that moment to drive the ball into the back of the net to score the winning goal. All three of
us leaped off the sofa, cheering, and I didn’t care what my ancestors thought.

Celestine watched in puzzled amusement. ‘No need to ask how things are going, then,’ she said, as Dontay and Mary high-fived. ‘Good to meet you at last, Dontay.’

He flashed a shy grin and nodded. I beamed, proud of him and of myself. My goal had been to get him to open up. If things carried on the way they had been going, it looked like England
weren’t the only ones to have hit the target.

Megan was practically bouncing off the corridor walls when I joined her outside our form room the next morning. Dr Bailey frowned at her as he prowled by, his handlebar
moustache quivering with disapproval, but thankfully he didn’t speak.

‘Have you heard what’s happening this afternoon?’ she said, almost squeaking with suppressed excitement.

I studied her gleaming eyes and stupidly bouncy grin. ‘School is closing early?’ I hazarded.

She shook her head. ‘Nope.’

I pursed my lips thoughtfully. ‘Zombie Bride are doing a secret gig in the dance studio?’

They were Megan’s favourite band and I knew she’d give up Oreo cookies for a month to see them play. Her gaze became distant as she got momentarily side-tracked. ‘No,’
she conceded, ‘but that would be monumentally cool. Guess again.’

‘Charlie asked you out?’

‘Yeah, because
that’s
going to happen.’ She jiggled impatiently. ‘Come on, you’re not trying hard enough. What’s the most exciting thing you can
imagine, like, ever?’

‘Why don’t you just tell me?’ I suggested, raising my eyebrows. ‘Before you make a puddle on the floor.’

She leaned in closer. ‘The first inter-school sports tournament of the year is next month, so Mrs Robertson has decided that all the Year Tens have to try out for the athletics
squad.’ She paused to look at me meaningfully. ‘This afternoon.’

My heart sank to the bottom of my black pumps. There were few lessons I truly hated but PE was one of them. Quite why Megan was expecting me to get in a lather about it was anyone’s guess.
‘And?’

She turned her gaze towards the ceiling. ‘It means that both halves of the year will be together. Who do we know in the other half of the year?’

Suddenly, I understood. She meant Nico. ‘Megan —’

She clasped her hands together, grinning like a less hairy chimpanzee. ‘They all got notes telling them to bring their kit yesterday. It’s so perfect! Imagine if he was one of the
team captains. I bet he’d pick you first.’

I stared at her helplessly. Where did this idea come from that Nico and me were some kind of star-crossed lovers? I’d hardly mentioned him, and suddenly we were the Bella and Edward of
North London. ‘He’d wish he hadn’t picked me, let me tell you,’ I said, my voice grim. ‘There’s only one thing I’m worse at than sport and that’s
French.’

‘He won’t mind. Anyway, you’re exaggerating.’

I rolled my eyes. She might be fast becoming my best friend, but she was nuttier than a Snickers bar sometimes. ‘You saw me playing hockey last week. How many times did I trip over my own
stick?’

Shrugging, she said, ‘So hockey isn’t your thing. It doesn’t matter, anyway. Nico is going to be all over you.’

My treacherous brain conjured up his image and whispered that it wouldn’t mind that at all. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ellie leaning towards us, her eyes narrowed. I pushed the
thought firmly out of my head and nudged Megan. ‘Shh!’

She folded her arms, smirking. ‘Someone’s going to have their nose put right out of joint. I can’t wait.’

Glumly, I trailed into the room after Megan. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d planned an outfit for my wedding and named our first kids. How disappointed was she going to be when
Nico completely blanked me later?

Despite my best efforts to ignore them, Megan’s words nagged at me throughout the morning, not helped by the tiny corner of my brain hoping she was right about Nico. By
the time lunch rolled around, I was feeling sick with anxiety. If there’d been a Mr Men character called
Little Miss Clumsy
, I’d have been the model. I wasn’t remotely
interested in some stupid inter-school competition and Mrs Robertson would be even less keen on having me in her elite squad. It was a form of legalised torture, with the added stress of knowing
Nico would be watching. In spite of my vow not to get involved with him, part of me already was.

Megan was beaming at me from the other side of the changing room, but I didn’t share her enthusiasm. In fact, I was seriously considering inventing a mystery ailment to get out of the
trials altogether. It wouldn’t be stretching the truth too much to say I had stomach cramps. But some teachers have in-built lie detectors and Mrs Robertson was one of them. Nothing short of
a broken limb would save me, and I wasn’t that desperate. Miserably, I pulled my kit on and tried to ignore the daggers Ellie and her mates were firing my way.

Megan started scanning the sports field as soon as we got out there, and it didn’t take her long to spot Nico in the crowd.

‘There he is!’

I followed her outstretched finger to where Nico stood, his jet-black head clearly visible above those of his friends.

‘Oh my God, he’s watching you!’ she squealed.

Sure enough, Nico was looking our way. Horribly aware that Megan was still pointing at him and feeling my face turn Barbie pink, I snatched her arm down. ‘Shut up!’

‘But he was,’ she insisted, shaking my hand off. ‘I told you he fancies you.’

I wasn’t denying he’d been looking, but he wasn’t any more. Now he was laughing with his mates and there were no prizes for guessing what the joke was. Maybe he was telling
them what a freak I was.

‘Just leave it, Megan,’ I mumbled, turning my back on Nico and willing my rosy cheeks to cool down. I obviously wasn’t cut out to be the heroine of a doomed romance –
they never blushed.

Mrs Robertson trotted over in her trademark polyester tracksuit. ‘Come along, girls, get a move on.’ She stopped and surveyed us critically. ‘Megan, you did well at high jump
last year. Why don’t you work on that again?’

Her gaze travelled down to the top of my head, which was somewhere around the level of Megan’s earlobe. ‘Hmm, what are we going
to do with you?’

Please let her take pity on me and send me back to the changing rooms
, I prayed, trying to look as useless at sport as possible. Typically, my efforts were wasted. ‘How do you fancy
a go at the triple jump?’